


Figurative Language

by alamorn



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: It’s two years after the apocalypse that wasn’t and the only thing that’s changed is Aziraphale’s dick. That is to say, he has one now.





	Figurative Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher/gifts).



It’s two years after the apocalypse that wasn’t and the only thing that’s changed is Aziraphale’s dick. That is to say, he has one now. It has a foreskin. And veins.

He nearly calls up Crowley in a panic but manages not to. A few thousand years of…cordial proximity and a few hundred of genuine, if reluctant, friendship can stand up to a lot of things. Blurting, “I have a dick, am I turning into a demon?” over the phone is maybe not one of them.

Oh, well, Crowley might be able to deal with it. Aziraphale is sure he would not, or at least that he would have to avoid Crowley for a few decades until they both forgot about the whole thing. And he enjoys his time with Crowley too much for that.

So he bites his tongue and sits down to figure his dick out. He thinks over terminology as he explores it. Penis is clinical, hard plosive and snakey sibilant, nothing like the soft flesh he’s cupping in his palm. Wang is undignified, which, as the thing starts to fill with blood, swelling and hardening in his hand, might be the most accurate. It lacks something though.

He traces his thumb over the head, sliding back the foreskin and tracing the slit, and shivers with the sensation. Member is too euphemistic. He uses his other hand cup his balls. He’s not feeling euphemistic. Dick seems serviceable enough, though it’s missing something. The thrill going up his spine is not at all communicated by “dick.”

Cock, he thinks, and pulls roughly, marveling at how the skin is soft over the hardness. It’s more aggressive a word than how he really feels, but it fits nicely in his mouth, it captures that shiver of naughtiness.

What does Crowley call his cock? Aziraphale imagines him saying, “On your knees, angel. Suck my cock, angel,” and comes with the shock of blasphemy.

He ends up avoiding Crowley for a few weeks anyway, until Crowley calls him up, voice honey sweet on the other side of the line. “Drinks at my place tonight, angel. I got my hands on a bottle of Glenfiddich 1937.”

Aziraphale’s mouth waters at the thought. “I’ll be there,” he promises without a thought to why he’s been avoiding Crowley.

 

When he gets there, Crowley’s in a white button up with the sleeves shoved up and the first few buttons open, revealing flashes of his throat and collarbones. It’s…appealing, in a way he never noticed before. He remembers the dick problem, suddenly.

Then Crowley grins, putting his sharp teeth on display, and says, “Angel! Get over here, this beauty has just been languishing away.”

Aziraphale goes. The bottle in understated and elegant, the whisky a deep walnut that shines red where the light passes through. “Well, we don’t want that,” Aziraphale says, sitting and leaning forward with his elbows on the table. Crowley loves an audience, and Aziraphale is happy to provide one.

Crowley puts on a show as he cracks the wax seal and pours, but Aziraphale finds himself watching the flex and jump of Crowley’s forearms rather than the bottle.

Crowley tsk’s as he slides a half-full glass in front of Aziraphale. “What’s on your mind, angel?”

Traitorously, Aziraphale blushes. He hides his face with the glass to cover it, sniffing ostentatiously. “Where’d you get this?” he asks, though he doesn’t really care.

Crowley grins, and Aziraphale finds the sight of sharp teeth against plush lips captivating. “Oh, it was just laying around gathering dust. It seemed a sin to let it waste away like that.”

“Gathering dust in someone’s collection?” Aziraphale asks, arching a brow. “A sin indeed. We’ll have to drink it all, to make up for that.”

Crowley beams. “Too true.”

The conversation is light and easy through half the bottle. They move to Crowley’s living room, where they’re surrounded by all of his lush plants. At some point, Crowley puts on music. By some blessing, it’s not Queen, but something soft and intimate and instrumental.

Then Crowley pours him another glass, waits for him to drain it, and says, “Truth or dare.”

“What?” Aziraphale has to laugh. “What brought this on?”

“Humor me,” Crowley says. “Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

Crowley casts around for something to make him do. “Finish the bottle.”

“If I must, I must.” Aziraphale toasts him with it, then chugs. It really is some of the best whisky he’s ever had. A pity he can hardly taste it anymore.

When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. When he looks up, Crowley’s eyes are dark and focused. “Your turn,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley licks his lips and Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry. “Truth.”

The words trip out without consulting his brain. “When we thought it was all over, what did you regret most?”

Crowley shrugs languorously. “There’s a few things I never got to say to you.”

“To me?” It’s the alcohol making his tongue loose and his surprise genuine.

“Who else is there?” Crowley shrugs and Aziraphale has to bite his lip to keep from saying something stupid. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I grew a dick,” Aziraphale tells him. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, or something else, but it seems silly all of a sudden. Very silly to have worried about. “I thought about whether you had a dick. I was embarrassed.”

Crowley blinks. “That’s not what I was expecting. I do, yeah.” His voice drops suddenly, so it’s like velvet, wrapping around Aziraphale. “Do you want to see it?”

“Truth or dare,” Aziraphale blurts out instead of answering.

“Dare,” Crowley says, head cocked to the side. Aziraphale desperately keeps his eyes from Crowley’s crotch, presented as it is by long legs spread wide.

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley moves deliberately, as if he’s holding something back. A weird demon dick? Aziraphale wonders semi-hysterically. And then Crowley’s mouth, hot as hell, is over his own, and Aziraphale can’t think anymore.

Crowley kisses him until he’s gasping, panting into Crowley’s mouth, face on fire, dick straining against his inseam. When Crowley pulls away, he chases after him, clutching the collar of Crowley’s shirt to keep him from getting away.

Crowley grabs him by the wrists, holding him back. His eyes are normally dark, but there’s something else there now, an intensity Aziraphale isn’t used to. And it’s all focused on him.

“Tell me you want this,” Crowley says. There’s an edge of pleading, so unexpected Aziraphale is half-sure he’s imagining it.

“I want it,” he says anyway.

Crowley kisses him again, doing wicked things with his wicked tongue. Then there’s a shock of hot fingers on the skin of his waist as Crowley pushes his jumper up.

Aziraphale leans back and yanks his jumper over his head entirely. Crowley grins and unbuttons his shirt. They could magic their clothes off, could burn the alcohol from their blood, but…This feels better. Like unwrapping a gift.

And then, without warning, Crowley goes to his knees. Aziraphale feels a little faint. Crowley nuzzles the front of his straining trousers, then undoes the button and zipper and peels them down. His pants do little enough to restrain his erection and it pops up in Crowley’s face.

Wang, he thinks, might as well be an onomatopoeia. Then Crowley licks through the fabric and Aziraphale doesn’t think anything at all. Crowley’s mouth is hot and wet as he mouths the head of Aziraphale’s cock. It’s only when Aziraphale is gasping and grasping at his hair that Crowley slides his pants down, tucking the elastic behind Aziraphale’s balls so everything is pushed forward and presented.

“It’s a lovely dick,” Crowley assures him, and then lowers his head and takes all of it in at once so his nose bumps Aziraphale’s belly.

Aziraphale has to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe slowly through his nose so he won’t come immediately. It’s too much, he’s oversensitive, he can _feel the back of Crowley’s throat_. When Crowley pulls back, he laves special attention on the head, the foreskin, and his tongue truly is wicked.

Aziraphale does not last long.

Crowley swallows and Aziraphale feels great sympathy for the apple, all of a sudden. Consumed.

He drags Crowley up and kisses him. Then, when he is feeling bolder, he lets his hand stray to the front of Crowley’s trousers. His cock is hard behind his fly, and it is as hot as every other part of Crowley. Hotter, even. Crowley moans into his mouth.

Crowley’s hands shake as he pulls out his cock, but Aziraphale isn’t sure why. It’s a beautiful cock, long and curved, and attached to Crowley. He _has_ to touch it.

He takes his time running his hand over Crowley’s dick. He has to marvel at the soft skin, the hard flesh, the slide of the foreskin, the way pre-cum leaks fromthe slit at the barest brush of his hands. He smears it with his thumb and his hand moves easier. Up and down and Crowley groans.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Even though he hasn’t asked, Aziraphale goes to his knees. Crowley gasps, “Angel,” and Aziraphale licks tentatively at the head.

He can’t take it very far into his mouth, he realizes quickly. It’s heavy on his tongue and fills his mouth totally. If he goes too far back, he gags, so he uses his hand to cover the rest of Crowley’s length.

Crowley threads his hands through Aziraphale’s curls and tugs lightly, moving his head back and forth. Not far enough that Aziraphale gags, but enough the he feels deliciously used. He’s at his best when he’s given instruction, after all.

Crowley fucks his face until he’s coming, spurting over the back of Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale suctions his lips tight and swallows it all down, and instead of the apple, he’s Eve, making a choice. Perhaps it’s the whisky, but he can’t seem to feel bad. _He_ has no urge to cover himself.

Crowley collapses down next to him and draws him into another kiss. His eyes are bright when he pulls away. “You _are_ magnificent, angel.” He laughs a little, pushes his hair back from his forehead.

Aziraphale shifts on his knees, cups the back of Crowley's neck. "I think I like having a dick," he says frankly and Crowley laughs again.

 

Crowley makes tea while Aziraphale talks to his plants. Not the way Crowley does, nor the way you're supposed to. He talks to them like he talks to children -- that is, with a great deal of awkwardness, unsure about the whole business.

When Crowley finishes in the kitchen and presses the teacup into Aziraphale's hands, Aziraphale sighs and considers leaning into him. "Have you done that before?" he asks.

"What, blown an angel? Can't say I have."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "No. Just...sex. Generally I mean."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him and Aziraphale's dick throbs traitorously. "Who do you think I am?"

"No need to be smug about it," he sniffs. "I haven't, after all."

"You just grew a dick, I think I've had more time to try things out than you have. Though..."

"Yes?" Aziraphale prompts.

Crowley shrugs. "I liked it better with you. Think you'll want to go again?"

Aziraphale turns to study him. There was something faux-casual about his tone, his body language. Crowley talked in layers constantly, and Aziraphale hates it every time. He's bad at subtext, when it's people, and not books. Doesn't have the patience for it. "I wasn't planning on trying with anyone else," he says carefully, watching closely.

Crowley relaxes, just a bit. "Good. It'll be nice, not worrying about lying down for a nap and waking up to a dead fuck buddy."

"You do know how to make a heavenly being feel special," Aziraphale says dryly.

He doesn't ask what it means, to have grown a dick. If Crowley has had one for ages, it must mean that he's gotten more demonic lately. Farther from God's light every day. It's hard to worry too much about it.

"Well," he says, eventually. "How do you feel about a round two?"

Crowley, as it turns out, feels very positively indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> a bottle of Glenfiddich 1937 costs $20,000. chugging it is absolutely a sin.


End file.
